


The Music Makers

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Sussex Retirement [11]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes believes he can no longer play his violin, but Watson thinks otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude and Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Music" prompts for LJ's Older not Dead comm and LJ's Watson's Woes "Sly" prompt.

“No, it’s no good.”

I did not look up until I knew Holmes had turned away to put his violin back in its case. I could see, from the way his shoulders had slumped, he was convinced this was the last time he would play his instrument. I knew better than to offer my sympathy; Holmes would not have appreciated it.

Even when he had played for us on Christmas Day I had been aware Holmes had found some of the more intricate passages were presenting a problem. And now the damp had made his arthritis worse and he was no longer able to play many of his favourite pieces.

I did feel sorry for him. He had been a gifted amateur, and, had his circumstances been different, I am sure he could have earned a living playing with a provincial orchestra. There had been many occasions when I had enjoyed his playing and he had taken great delight in coming home after a concert and trying out the music we had heard, perhaps with an accompanying “so that’s how he does it.”

Of course, there were other times when the sound of the violin had not been so welcome. To be woken at three in the morning by the same phrase being played over and over as Holmes considered a particularly knotty problem, was never a delight. And both Mrs Hudson and I were relieved when he got over his infatuation with Ferruccio Busoni. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with Busoni’s music, but when it is all one has heard for three solid weeks, one is grateful for a change of composer.

Holmes turned towards the gramophone, but I knew that would be a poor substitute. Hurriedly I began to look round, picking up and putting down cushions in a rather aimless fashion.

“Watson, what are you doing?” he asked.

“It must be here somewhere,” I replied vaguely.

“Indeed, my dear fellow, it almost certainly is. Perhaps if you were to tell me what you had lost, I could assist you with your search.”

Unfortunately, I had failed to find anything I could conceivably be looking for, and muttered rather lamely that I was looking for my pen.

Holmes, of course, instantly walked over to my desk and held it aloft. “This pen?” he enquired.

“Err, yes,” I answered. “Silly of me not to remember where I had left it.”

The smile Holmes gave me was not one of tolerance for an old man who has grown forgetful, but of gratefulness for distracting him momentarily from his thoughts.

“And seeing your writing implements has reminded me I should be replying to Mycroft’s latest missive. Is there anything you wish to say to my brother?”

He sat at the table, whilst I returned to my armchair. I asked him to remind me of the contents of Mycroft’s last letter and then provided some details about my plans for the garden for Holmes to include. For someone who does not even choose to walk in St James’ Park, Mycroft has shown a surprising interest in the state of our garden.

Later, as we made our preparations for bed, Holmes said, “Thank you for reminding me I have other interests I can indulge in. Of course, my bees continue to occupy many of the daytime hours, but I shall miss playing my violin of an evening. It is one of the perils of growing older, but also a reminder to enjoy those things one is able to do for as long as one can do them.”

I kissed him and held him close. Unlike Holmes I had not given up on his playing ability entirely. Whilst acknowledging he would no longer be able to manage the trickier cadenzas, I believed he could still gain enjoyment from playing many simpler pieces. However, finding a way to persuade him of this fact might prove almost as difficult as mastering the music of Paganini.


	2. Intermezzo

I had not found a satisfactory solution a few days later when George and Tom Hill came to collect me on their way to the Red Lion. I decided to put the current problem out of my mind and instead concentrate on the gossip which I could use to entertain Holmes on my return.

Holmes did not hold with gossip for its own sake, but he continued to delight in taking the snippets of information I brought home. He would pair them with other snippets I had mentioned, perhaps three or four weeks previously, and produce a complete story. Since, even though by now I was very familiar with his methods, I was unable to do the same, he would take pleasure in explaining his steps.

However, I soon discovered there were more important matters than catching up on village gossip that evening.

As Tom and I entered the Red Lion we saw Seth, who waved us over to join him.

“Now Doctor,” Seth began, “have you heard of the Palm Sunday procession?”

“Only in the Biblical sense,” I replied, “but I presume this is not what you had in mind.”

“Indeed it is not,” Tom said. He had paused to get our drinks and now joined us.

“Every Palm Sunday, there is a procession between the four villages. It begins in Foreash, from there it goes to Upper Langley, to us and finishes in Lower Langley,” Seth began.

I nodded, for I knew roughly where each of the villages were.

Tom took up the explanation. “At each of the villages those in the procession are entertained by the local musicians. And there is always a competition between the villages to be the best.”

“Is there a prize for this competition?” I asked.

“Oh, no.” Both Seth and Tom looked horrified at the suggestion. “Not at the start of Holy Week,” Tom said.

“It’s more a matter of pride,” Seth added.

That I could understand. There had been considerable upset a few weeks previously, when a football player from one of the outlying farms had chosen to play for Upper Langley rather than our village team. It had been taken so seriously a deputation had been sent to the lad’s father to ask him to intervene in the matter. The deputation had returned disappointed. It turned out the lad was out to impress a young lady in Upper Langley, and the success, or otherwise, of the courtship was likely to determine which football team he played for.

“I shall make a point of coming to listen,” I said. “And I’m sure Holmes will be happy to come too.”

Seth and Tom exchanged glances.

“Actually, Doctor,” Seth said, “we were hoping you’d join our singers. I heard you singing at Christmas and you have a good voice. You would be a great asset to us and would bolster up the lower register.”

“I don’t suppose I’d know any of the songs,” I said. “And Palm Sunday cannot be that far away.”

“Just under three weeks,” Tom replied. “The tunes are quite simple and it’s not as if you’d have any trouble with the words.”

I laughed. “I’m afraid the days when I could easily learn the words for a song are all in my past.”

“No, you won’t need to learn them,” Seth said. “You can have them with you. You’ll be standing at the back with the men, so it’s unlikely anyone will even notice.”

It was clear Seth and Tom were determined I should take part, and I have to admit to being slightly curious about the proceedings, so I said, “Maybe I could come to the next practice, just to see how it goes.”

“Excellent,” Seth said, standing up.

Tom did likewise, picking up both his drink and mine as he did so. “This way, Doctor.”

I followed them both to the back room of the pub, which had been requisitioned for the practice.

They were correct; the music in the main was quite straightforward. There were a few unexpected key changes which caught me out and the last verse of some of the songs was more ornamental, but the rest of the choir assured me it wouldn’t matter if I stayed with the main melody.

It was an enjoyable evening and I was happy to say I would be part of the village choir for the Palm Sunday Procession.

We were practising the final song when the door opened and one of Seth’s neighbours burst in, “It’s Joe Higgins. He was repairing one of Colonel Sampson’s walls when he fell off and he’s broken his arm. We’re a fiddle short.”


	3. Allegro con Spirito

Any reader who believes I went back to the cottage that evening and promptly asked Holmes if he could deputise for the injured Joe Higgins, knows neither Holmes nor myself well. Of course I told him I had somehow managed to join the village choir. I also informed him I expected his presence when we came to perform and he laughingly promised to be there.

I spoke no more about the rehearsal until Holmes heard me singing on the stairs on the way to bed.

“I thought you said the songs were all new to you,” he said.

“They are,” I replied, “it just happens I knew the tune to one of them. Only the words were different.”

“I rather imagine they were. I am not sure the sentiments expressed in the version you were singing would be suitable for the more mature lady, let alone a delicate young woman.”

I laughed. Holmes was right; the barrack room version I had been singing would not be acceptable at the Palm Sunday Procession.

***

The following morning, when Mrs Maiden arrived, she said, “Dr Watson, Seth tells me you are considering growing some herbs. Could you show me where you are planning to put them?”

Holmes muttered something about if we were discussing plants he was going to check on his bees, and departed in one direction, whilst I took Mrs Maiden in the opposite.

As soon as we were safely out of Holmes’ earshot, she said to me, “Sam Fletcher’s working on the bee-keeping tool Mr Holmes ordered, so it will be ready by tomorrow afternoon. If you can then persuade him to stop for a drink in the Red Lion, our Bert will have the musicians together and starting to play. But do you think Mr Holmes will come down?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. He’s been waiting impatiently for that tool; he’ll be delighted it’s ready early and keen to try it out. And from Fletcher’s I should be able to get him to the Red Lion. But he won’t play anything he deems to be an inferior instrument and I cannot get his violin down there.”

“Of course not. If we just show him there’s a need for another musician, we’ll have done our bit. But do you think he’ll suspect anything?”

“Only that I’m trying to get him to join the choir. So with any luck he’ll be watching out for any tricks in that direction and not see anything else.”

***

The plan worked very well; if Holmes had any suspicions, they were outweighed by his desire to have his new tool. He had expressed slight surprise it was ready, when Mrs Maiden relayed the message to him on her arrival on Thursday morning, but was in such a good humour he was disinclined to dwell on it.

Mrs Maiden had said Fletcher would be ready for him at four o’clock and Holmes was like a restless child for the first part of the afternoon, wanting to leave earlier than was necessary. When we set off to walk down to the village, Holmes took my arm and practically dragged me along. Upon our arrival in the village I told him I was going to have a sit down in the Red Lion and he could call in for me once he was ready to return home. That way I could be sure he would have to come into the pub.

About three-quarters of an hour later, he entered, looking very satisfied with his purchase. He came across to join me and at the moment the band began to play. He spun round and looked critically at them. They had drafted little Jimmy Lennox in to play the fiddle, but he was only eleven years old and completely overawed by the occasion.

Holmes strode over and smiled at Jimmy. “You need to hold your violin higher,” he said, “and your bow needs to be firmer with the strings. At the moment it seems rather afraid of them.”

“Oh!” Jimmy looked frightened of Holmes as well as the strings now.

Holmes sighed.

“I don’t suppose you’d care to demonstrate, Mr Holmes,” Bert, the publican said. “We’ve got a violin here you could borrow.”

He took down a violin case from a high shelf and pushed it over the counter to Holmes. It did not look very impressive and at first Holmes only gave it a cursory glance. Then he quickly opened the case to look at the violin.

“Where did you get this from?” he asked. “It’s a Nicolas Lupot.”

He took the violin out and began to tune the strings.

“A gentleman gave it to us a few years ago, in return for a week’s board and lodging,” Bert said. “He was a nice old man and we were quiet at the time, so it seemed a fair exchange. Dunno where he got it from though. Is it valuable?”

“Lupot was one of the best French violin makers in France. He worked in Paris around 1800 and his instruments are still highly prized. If you were to take it to auction you would be amply repaid for the board and lodging you provided.”

Holmes had finished tuning the violin and began to play. It was a sweet country air and the rest of the customers in the pub fell silent to listen to him. When he finished there was a spontaneous round of applause. Holmes gave a small smile and bowed slightly.

Then turning to the band leader he said, “I deduce you are short of a player, for I cannot imagine young Jimmy here volunteered to join. If I may be permitted to play this beautiful instrument, then I would be delighted to be part of your band.”

Bert said, “Mr Holmes, it would be an honour if you were able to play.” It was clear he was keen to offer the violin to Holmes, but did not wish to cause any offence.

“In which case, landlord,” Holmes said, “after we have finished our rehearsal, I shall negotiate with you a suitable price for this magnificent violin. I shall, of course, expect a discount in acknowledgement of my participation in this and future Palm Sunday Processions.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of a violin by Nicolas Lupot can be found here: http://tarisio.com/cozio-archive/cozio-carteggio/a-fine-french-violin-by-nicolas-lupot-paris-1799/
> 
> And a recent auction sale: https://www.bonhams.com/auctions/20770/lot/191/


End file.
